


A Time for Everything

by hobgoblin123



Category: Coldfire Trilogy - C. S. Friedman
Genre: Birthday Presents, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Religious Conflict, Religious Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-19 14:40:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13125801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobgoblin123/pseuds/hobgoblin123
Summary: After their return from hell, Damien buys Tarrant a gift. Will it be received well? No sex, just a chaste kiss, but quite a bit of religious topics in honour of the season.





	A Time for Everything

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy, and no profit whatsoever is intended.  
> Credits: The "a time for everything"-quote is from Ecclesiastes 3, New King James Version (NKJV)  
> A/N: Merry X-mas to all of you!

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Seeing the poster announcing a special service in honour of the Prophet's birthday of all things, Damien had hardly been able to believe his eyes. He had no idea whether the date was correct or not. Vulking hell, until he had met the man in person roundabout two years ago, he hadn't even known his name. The Church had seen to that after Tarrant's abysmal fall from grace. But the 21st June was the day of the summer solstice, a welcome excuse for revelries among most of the pagan communities, and he wasn't stupid enough to put a nice little swindle past his religious authorities. As long as it served the greater good, or what they perceived as such, the Church of Unification wasn't above bending the truth to her favour every now and then.

It wouldn't be a first, anyway. When it had become clear soon after the landing that the ancient belief in the messiah had to be abandoned if one didn't want to risk spawning new demonlings in the dozen every night, each more perfect than the other with their blissful smiles and angelic looks which unfortunately couldn't quite outweigh their less than savoury intentions, the Church had been quick to replace the traditional Christmas festivities with its ancient predecessor Yule, now stripped of all its pagan purports and conveniently declared founding day of the Order of the Golden Flame.

Thinking of the small parcel hidden safely in his vest pocket, Damien's heart skipped a beat. He still didn't quite know what had come over him, but in a fit of sentimentality, he had bought Tarrant a present just in case, and a costly one at that. It might have been sheer madness, but he simply hadn't been able to resist the stunning gem he had spotted in a shop in Chancery Lane earlier today. Straight from the Revivalist period, the antiques dealer had assured him. It was to be hoped that he hadn't been taken in by a proficient forger. As a child of the very same era, not to mention his brilliance and learning, the adept would doubtlessly detect a fake in a blink, and turning a blind eye to such a blunder simply wasn't his style. No, if that huckster had indeed gotten the better of him, Gerald wouldn't let him live this down for as long as they were both alive, however short that might be. That was as sure as day followed night.

It went without saying that he hadn't touched a single coin of the Patriarch's allowance and coughed up the last of his own silver instead. Anyway, the mere thought of the man's reaction to Church money being spent on a gift for the Hunter was enough to bring a broad smile to Damien's face, an incident so rare these days that it was almost worth gallivanting all over town with an empty purse.

Up to now, everything had gone according to plan. Tarrant had agreed on joining him for a night stroll without raising any objections, and he hadn't so much as batted an eyelash when it had become clear that Damien was heading straight for Jaggonath's famous cathedral. A good omen, as far as the warrior knight was concerned.

Noticing the huge poster attached to the main portal at long last, Gerald arched a shapely brow, but refrained from commenting on the subject with unwonted reticence. To be precise, he fell completely silent, just stood there utterly motionless and stared at the faceless image of the Prophet in full regalia as if in a trance, his silver eyes wide with an emotion Damien couldn't put a name upon.

At first, he didn't think much of it. Tarrant had been to hell and back lately, in the most literal sense of the word, and he hadn't come out of it unscathed, something the ugly scar on his face could testify to. For a while, Damien had been worried sick about him, albeit hiding his anxiety behind a wall of gruffness. But the adept seemed to have recovered by now. The generous donations of Karril's followers had certainly helped to get him back on his feet. At least physically. His soul – that was an altogether different kettle of fish.

Taking all this into account, let alone the fact that being confronted with his human past all of a sudden must have come as quite a shock to his companion, Vryce thought it only fair to grant him a moment of quiet contemplation. But when Tarrant continued to mirror the imposing numarble statues gazing silently down on them, not even breathing, and the steady stream of festively clad worshippers started to slow down to a mere trickle, the warrior knight nudged him gently. "It's getting late, Gerald," he muttered. "I don't know about you, but I wouldn't mind a seat. Our last adventure in _somewhat warmer climates_ has worn me out, if you know what I mean, and I'm not even talking about our next suicidal mission. So let's hurry up. You can get into a fuss later."

"I won't accompany you," the Hunter whispered, his voice barely audible over the incessant ringing of the bells. "Nothing good can come of it, anyway."

Damien furrowed his brow. "Why not, for God's sake? Not so long ago, you insisted that no wards could keep you out, however intricately woven. So what's the problem now? Entering a house of worship?" he blurted out in a sudden flash of inspiration.

"Don't be ridiculous, Vryce," Tarrant retorted with a miffed snort. "It's true that most of my kind, high-order demons included, wouldn't dare to trespass on holy ground. They know of no other option and act accordingly. But it was I who designed this cathedral almost a thousand years ago, who consecrated it in a solemn ceremony and wrote almost every single word the priest is going to recite. Without me and my labours to elevate the faith of our forefathers above the sad joke it had become at the end of the dark ages, there would be no service here tonight. Or anywhere else on Erna, for that matter. Hence, I find your allegations rather insulting."

Hearing the old air of superiority creeping back into the Hunter's voice, Damien felt his hackles rising despite his best efforts to keep matters civilized. "I haven't forgotten who you are. Who you _were_ before your fall from grace. His real name, his very identity may have been struck from the books, but the Prophet of the Law is still the main figurehead of the Church of Unification, remember? I know what we owe you. But I also know that you've never been a coward, so what the hell has come over you all of a sudden?" he challenged hotly.

"You don't understand. You simply can't understand."

"Then _make_ me understand! Good God, Gerald, I'm sick and tired of having to worm everything out of you."

Tarrant turned away from him and stared fixedly into the distance. "Twenty-nine days from now on, and you'll be rid of me for good, so there's something for you to look forward to," he breathed, a pained expression on his face. "And now be gone, Vryce! Enter and try to find solace in communing with Him. It will do you good. My place is somewhere else."

For a fleeting second, Damien was tempted to let the matter rest and do exactly what his ally against all odds had suggested, but there was something so lost, so utterly desolate in Tarrant's voice that he simply couldn't leave the man to his own devices in his current state. "And where exactly _is_ your place, Gerald," he asked gently. "Karril's cellar? A shabby back alley, laying in wait for an unwary drunk? I don't think that's what you need now."

"And what do I need in your valued opinion?"

"What we all need at times: a friend to talk to. I'm offering."

At first, the Hunter said nothing, just continued to stare holes into the night as if the answer to all his problems was buried somewhere in the darkness, but at long last he squared his shoulders and turned around to look Damien right into the eyes. "I'm grateful for your consideration, Vryce. Honestly," he whispered. "There's no denying that talking about my emotional life isn't among my favourite pastimes, but I think you earned the right to know the truth when you came for me. At the very latest." Tarrant sighed softly. "Finding myself being rejected by the very God whose Church I've been serving for so many years now - no, hear me out, will you? - was something I could have very well done without. It hurt, shook me to the core of what is left of my human soul, but that's nothing new for you. The lesser part of me on the other hand, the demonic one influenced by insinuations of forces evil beyond mortal reckoning, would have relished in making a mockery of a sacred act by my presence alone a mere few months ago. It would have pleased my dark masters for sure, although it's a bit late for worrying about that, eh? Anyway, I suddenly find myself rather unwilling to add such an atrocity to my already long tally. It simply... doesn't feel right."

"Gerald, I... I don't know what to say," Vryce muttered at long last, and a truer word had never been spoken. So many different feelings were tumbling around in him that he needed a moment of peace and quiet to sort them out. Loathing was a prominent part of them, not so much of the Hunter and his hellish trappings, but of the malignant powers that had lost no time in warping and twisting the genius whose signature was on almost every single one of their Holy Scriptures into an abomination banned from the presence of God, if by his own choice or not. Pity was also there and a deep, aching sorrow for his companion, his _friend_ he'd come to admire beyond anything he had thought possible at the beginning of their acquaintance, somewhat tempered by his fierce joy about Tarrant's admission of his misgivings. Only the Lord in His infinite wisdom and mercy could have wrought such a change in a being so steeped in evil. And something else bloomed inside him, something so far beyond his world-view that he couldn't face it. Not now.

_Oh God, I know that I've strayed far from the path set for me, but please don't take it out on Gerald_ , the warrior knight prayed silently. _Just grant him the time he needs to find his way back home to You. I promise that I'll do everything I can to support him on the long and winding road to redemption, even if it costs my life. I'll give it willingly and without hesitation."_

Damien would never know whether his next actions had sprung from divine inspiration or just plain common sense - or something else entirely - but instead of wasting his breath on further fruitless debates or joining a bunch of latecomers and to hell with Gerald Tarrant's plans for the night, he opened the portal a crack, went down on his knees and bowed his head. As if on cue, the mighty church organ started to fill the air with its sublime harmonies, followed by a chorus of voices that would have done the long-abandoned angels proud, and he forgot all about Calesta and impending doom and lost himself in the mysteries of his faith.

Time seemed to stand still while the believers raised their voices to the Heavens and the priest preached about God's forgiveness. The warrior knight wasn't agonizing over the danger posed to mankind by a power-crazed Iezu now, nor was he praying for the Prophet's salvation. He just _was_. But when the last hymn of the service was nearing its end, something tugged at his mind with rising insistence, jolting him back to reality. Jerking his head up, his eyes instantly locked on the Hunter, and the bubble of blissful contentment he'd been floating in burst with an almost audible 'plop'.

He had seen his brother-in-arms suffering both physical and mental agonies on more occasions than he actually cared to count. The mere thought of those serpentine creatures twining inside and out of the man's body still made him sick with dread. At the time, Tarrant had been so wracked by pain that he'd been almost unrecognizable, his delicate features twisted into a mask of boundless torment that would haunt Damien in his dreams.

Not so here. The adept's posture was rigid, the hands that could wield a sword and a pen with equal skill balled into tight fists, but his face gave nothing away, was utterly serene as if no troubles of the mortal plane could ever touch him. But the aura of sadness and soul-crushing despair surrounding him was so palpable that Damien couldn't get to his feet fast enough. "Gerald, what's wrong with you?" he exclaimed, appalled at the tremors passing through Tarrant's lean frame every now and then.

The Neocount didn't answer his increasingly frantic questions, remained stone silent as if he'd somehow lost all capacity for human speech. When he started to sway from side to side ever so slightly, Damien threw all caution to the wind and wrapped his arms around him.

The chill radiating from the Hunter took his breath away, but he didn't mind, didn't mind at all. Holding the man he had gone to hell and back for felt so good, so inexplicably _right_ that everything else paled before it, even the transcendental bliss he had felt in His presence. The very same ridiculous notion he had so valiantly banished into the deepest recesses of his soul an hour ago raised its ugly head again with a vengeance, increased to a veritable thunderstorm of emotion with every passing second, taking his breath away. But it could never be. Mustn't be, whatever his fallible human heart might think about it.

Tarrant stiffened in his embrace, but he neither protested against the violation of his personal space nor did he draw back, just trembled against him for what felt like a small eternity. But at long last, he visibly pulled himself together and opened his eyes. "Are you all right, Vryce?" he breathed. " Your pulse is racing, and that tasteless shirt is sticking to your skin."

"I'm fine. It's you I'm worried about. Feel better now?"

The Hunter sighed softly. "Yes. This was the first service I heard after a thousand years of corruption. It struck a chord in me, made me wish... so many things. Futile, human things. I hadn't expected that." Tarrant's gaze hardened. "But don't sidestep my question, Vryce. I'm not in the mood for repeating myself. After everything you've done for me, I'd rather not sift through your mind against your will, but too much is at stake to take things lightly."

Damn! Embarrassed beyond words, Damien desperately racked his brain for an excuse, but found none. At his wit's end, he suddenly remembered the gift box in his vest pocket. Tarrant never forgot anything, but maybe the present could buy him a short reprieve, some time to dredge up a white lie that would satisfy the adept. Somehow, he doubted it, doubted it very much, but it was worth a try. "Just do me a favour and let the matter rest for now," he muttered, hoping against hope that the relatively dim light would hide his blush. "I promise it has nothing to do with Calesta and our mission. By the way, I've got something for you. For your birthday. If today really _is_ your birthday, thas is. If not, you can keep it, anyway," he rambled on, feeling like a complete and utter fool.

The grey eyes drilling holes into him narrowed, but Tarrant gracefully accepted the box with a slight bow of his head and opened it without further ado. The golden ring Damien had bought shimmered in the torchlight like liquid fire. It was unadorned, save a square-cut midnight blue sapphire. Gerald's favourite colour.

Speaking of colours, due to being undead, the Hunter never looked like glowing health, although his alabaster complexion suited him too well to attract any unwanted attention. At least not at first glance. But the ghostly pallor creeping all over his face now warned Damien that something was seriously amiss. "Gerald, what on Earth and Erna...? he spluttered.

"Where did you get that?" Tarrant's voice was monotonous, utterly devoid of any human emotion whatsoever.

"Well, what do you think? I bought it. In Chancery Lane. Is it a fake?"

"Not at all. I know that ring, know it very well. It was a gift once already, more than nine hundred years before your time." The Hunter swallowed convulsively. "Do you believe in fate, Vryce?"

Damien gaped at him, completely aghast. "If I... ? No. Yes, perhaps, although as far as I'm concerned, our everyday actions depend entirely on ourselves. But what's that got to do with the vulking ring?"

"Everything." The slender finger pressed against his cheek was like the icy breath of winter. "The time for talk is over. Follow me to the past and See!"

As if by magic - of course the adept would fiercely object to the existence of real magic on Erna - their surroundings faded into non-existence, just to be replaced by a spacious bed-chamber with dark alter oak panels and a high, vaulted ceiling. If Damien had ever pictured someone else giving Tarrant a piece of jewellery, his deplorable wife would have come to his mind first and foremost. Maybe even King Gannon, as a token of his esteem for the brilliant strategist who'd led his troops from victory to victory and saved his crown in the process.

With regard to the ancient portrait Vryce had seen on display at the Church History Museum in Ganji-on-the-Cliffs once, the bearded, ruggedly handsome fellow slipping said gem on the left ring finger of a much younger version of Gerald Tarrant with a broad smile could very well have been the man himself. The dark, unruly locks and expressive hazel eyes were definitely the same. But not by any stretch of the imagination he would have expected both men to be stark naked and curled into each other in what could only be a lovers' embrace. It was... unsettling, to put it mildly.

All at once, Damien was back in reality, though still miles away from his comfort zone. At a loss for words, he looked at his companion. Tarrant returned his gaze unflinchingly, seemingly not in the least abashed by the very private reminiscences he had just deigned to share.

Aboard the ships carrying them across Novatlantis, he had repeatedly been plagued by nightmares not of the Hunter's making. He had dreamed about sinking deeper and deeper below the water surface, had felt his lungs struggling to draw a final, lethal breath and the pressure building up all around him. It had been horror incarnate. He never would have thought that drowning could be so pleasant. But drowning he was now, in those molten pools of silver watching him with a faint trace of amusement in their depths and something else he'd never seen in them before.

Damien's last defences crumbled into dust. Without thinking twice, he brought his mouth close to Tarrant's. For a fleeting instant, their lips brushed against each other, a feather-light touch, and the air seemed to sizzle around them. But much too soon for his liking, the adept disentangled himself from his embrace and stepped back. "It's written that everything has its time. A time to keep silence, And a time to speak; A time to love, And a time to hate; A time of war, And a time of peace," he quoted softly. "We're at war now, Vryce, a hateful war in which no quarter will be given on either side, and everything else must be secondary to its demands. But when this is over and we've both survived, I'd like to break my silence and ask you a question. Is that alright with you?"

The warrior knight thought of the thrice damned ultimatum hanging over Tarrant like the metaphorical sword of doom, of Calesta's frightening powers and the high likelihood that neither of them would live to tell the tale of their troubles. Putting off taking their relationship to the next level didn't seem like a wise course of action under the given circumstances. But suddenly he remembered the strange calm coming over him during worship, the utter conviction that God hadn't deserted them and somehow everything would turn out alright, and he nodded his assent. Gerald was right, as usual. First things first.

The Lord of the Forest smiled at him, evidently pleased with his decision. "And before you ask: Today is _not_ my birthday," he said offhandedly. "I was born on December 22nd, in one of the coldest winters on record. One more detail of my life story the Church chose to tamper with. But never mind. As you've suggested, I verily intend to keep your gift. It means a lot to me. Thank you."

Once again something passed between them when their eyes met, a promise of the things to come, and Tarrant's smile widened almost imperceptibly. Then they turned round as one man and vanished into the night.


End file.
